


Have Your Way

by fadeoutslow



Series: Have Your Way [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeoutslow/pseuds/fadeoutslow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post-Singapore 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have Your Way

He can't quite comprehend what's happened for a second or two. He's driving, focusing on Perez in front of him, and then, out of nowhere, there's the impact, violent and sudden. People always used to tell him that it's as if time slows down in those moments, that they seem to last forever, but Jean-Eric's never found that to be true and this one is no exception, over before he can even think, and that's it, his race is done.

 _Fuck_.

"You okay?" comes the voice in his ear, insistent and clear, tinged with a hint of panic. "Are you okay?"

"What the _fuck_?" he says, and he can hear the sigh of relief over the radio.

"Stay calm," they tell him. "Take a breath and _stay calm_."

They'd talked to him about that, after the incident with Heikki. About managing one's emotions and using anger in a productive way and always taking the big picture into account and letting things go and a whole lot of other touchy feely bullshit.

So much crap, but he loves his job and he wants to keep it, so he inhales, gets out of the car, prepares himself to _not_ say what he's thinking. 

And it's Michael who's hit him. Michael fucking Schumacher and Jean-Eric likes to consider himself a confident person, someone who doesn't take shit from anyone, no matter what their status, but what's he going to do? Ask the most experienced driver on the grid what the fuck he thought he was doing?

Even he doesn't have the balls for that.

"Sorry," Michael says. He looks almost forlorn, maybe a little lost, and Jean-Eric feels his anger dissipate somewhat. _Poor guy_ , he thinks.

"It's okay," he shrugs, patting Michael on the back. "Don't worry about it."

"My brakes, " says Michael. "They just…"

"It happens," Jean-Eric says.

"I owe you one." Michael looks at him, and Jean-Eric nods.

Later, they're sitting outside the steward's office, and Michael is staring at the wall, his expression utterly impassive. Jean-Eric watches him out of the corner of his eye, trying to decide if he's sad or furious or something else.

It's impossible to tell, and Jean-Eric can't help but be fascinated by that. Michael's face doesn't give anything away, not a single thing.

Jean-Eric finds himself wondering what it would take to make the man let go. 

He can think of a few ideas.

"I meant it," Michael says, suddenly.

"What?" Jean-Eric replies, startled.

Michael turns, looks at him. "That I owe you one."

Jean-Eric shrugs. "It's okay."

"No," says Michael. "Anything you need."

"Anything?" Jean-Eric laughs, briefly, trying to make a joke of it, but Michael doesn't seem to find this funny.

"Anything," he says, and yeah, the guy's intense, but there's something there, Jean-Eric thinks, surely, the way Michael's gaze sweeps ever so quickly downward, the look in his eyes. _Something_.

And maybe Jean-Eric's just imagining it, maybe it's just wishful thinking, but it's been a long day, his race is screwed and god knows he hasn't got anything to lose, so he takes the chance.

"Well," he says, leaning back slightly, spreading his legs just an inch or so wider, letting his hand drift down casually to rest on his thigh, next to his crotch, "I might have to take you up on that."

Michael doesn't reply, but there's the tiniest hint of approval on his face, the corner of his mouth quirked up so faintly it's almost imperceptible, and Jean-Eric has just enough time to wonder if he's made a really, really stupid mistake when the door opens.

"Come in, Michael," Charlie calls, and Jean-Eric's left waiting. 

Like always.

 _This fucking day_ , he thinks.

That night, he's sitting in some bar, watching Dan celebrate with the rest of the team, and it's not as if he's bitter, but it's difficult not to be envious. 

He nurses a beer, sipping slowly, picking at the label with his fingernails, trying not to spoil anyone's night by looking too miserable. He checks his phone, and there's a text, just a hotel name and room number, and _shit_. He nearly chokes, because it has to be. 

It has to be him. 

"I've got to go," he says.

"You okay, mate?" Dan asks, and he seems genuinely concerned.

"Sure," Jean-Eric replies. "I'm fine. I'm great."

It's only a short taxi ride, and then he's trying to compose himself, knocking on the door. 

Michael answers, and Jean-Eric swallows hard. The man looks as perfectly put together and composed as ever; flawless, like nothing can even touch him.

He stands, leaning against the edge of the door, not saying anything, just looking at Jean-Eric with that small, half-amused smirk on his face, and Jean-Eric shifts awkwardly, waiting to be invited in.

"I…" he starts, and then Michael moves back, gesturing, ushering him inside.

"Come in," he says, and Jean-Eric obeys, suddenly unsure about what he's got himself into here, but fuck if he's going to miss this chance, whatever happens.

He looks around the room, and it's nice. Generic, but nice, a little nicer than the rooms he's given but that makes sense.

"Take off your shirt," Michael says.

"What?"

He motions with his hand. "Take off your shirt."

And Jean-Eric doesn't know what he was expecting, maybe a 'sit down, have a drink', at least the pretence of a seduction, but he supposes if there's anyone in the world who doesn't like wasting time, it's going to be Michael Schumacher, so he does as he's told, pulling his t-shirt over his head and throwing it on the floor.

"Hmm," Michael says, eyes raking over Jean-Eric's form, but he doesn't touch him, just stares. Jean-Eric's hands are at his sides, fingers making fists in the fabric of his jeans. He's nervous, and he's not usually the kind of person who gets nervous, not in situations like this. He's the kind of person who likes to be in the driver's seat, in control, and it's becoming increasingly clear that this is an encounter in which he's going to have no control, none at all.

And the surprising thing is how fucking _hot_ that is.

Michael reaches down, unfastening the top two buttons on his own jeans, sliding his hand inside, rubbing himself, steady and slow, and Jean-Eric can't look away, it's like he's mesmerised, frozen to the spot.

Michael walks around behind him, and Jean-Eric can feel him move closer, the warmth of his body, hear the small rustling sounds, the hints of wet as he fondles himself.

Jean-Eric holds his breath, waiting to be touched, but there's no hands on him, just the careful, burning warmth of Michael's tongue as he licks along Jean-Eric's shoulder, pressing a brief kiss to the base of his neck before biting down on the skin, _almost_ too hard but not quite, and Jean-Eric gasps.

There's a soft laugh, and then Michael moves back around, facing Jean-Eric, looking him in the eye, not lowering his gaze for a second as he unbuttons Jean-Eric's jeans. "You ready?" he asks, and doesn't wait for an answer, sinking to his knees, pulling Jean-Eric's pants and underwear down in one efficient movement.

And Jean-Eric might be harder than he's ever been in his _life_ , has been since he knocked on the door, since he got that text, so he's grateful Michael doesn't bother with any build-up or subtleties, taking Jean-Eric's cock in his mouth, swallowing him down smoothly and _fuck_ , Jean-Eric feels like he's about explode.

Michael's mouth is hot and soft, his tongue working along the underside of Jean-Eric's cock, firm suction just _exactly_ right, fucking _perfect_. Jean-Eric tries to breathe, doesn't know where to put his hands, because the thought of messing up Michael's hair feels strangely… _inappropriate_ , even in this moment, so he rests his fingers lightly on Michael's shoulders, one hand slipping up to touch Michael's face, feeling the movement of his jaw.

Jean-Eric tries to thrust, the slick heat of Michael's throat irresistible, but Michael grips his hips, hard enough to leave bruises, holding him still, establishing his own relentless rhythm. 

And it's too much, too fucking much, because Jean-Eric's already coming, white hot pulse of pleasure shooting up his spine as he pushes forward into Michael's mouth.

He's standing there, panting, feeling like he's been hit all over again, but Michael's seemingly not interested in giving him time to recover, saying, "Take off your clothes."

He's already stripping himself, smooth, tanned body exposed, and Jean-Eric watches for a moment before kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his jeans. 

"Get on the bed," Michael says. "On your hands and knees."

Jean-Eric feels a low curl in his belly at the command, and perhaps there's fear in there but it's mostly excitement, anticipation as he climbs on to bed, assuming the requested position, still breathing hard.

"You're very beautiful," says Michael. 

"Thanks," Jean-Eric says, feeling himself blush as the bed behind him dips with Michael's weight. Jean-Eric braces himself for what's to come, but Michael merely leans forward, presses a kiss to the base of Jean-Eric's spine. "Have you done this before?" he asks.

"Not…" Jean-Eric inhales. "Not a for a while."

"But you like it?"

" _Yes_."

"Good," Michael says, mouth moving lower, his tongue licking into the top of Jean-Eric's crack, kisses wet with saliva than runs down over his hole, making him shiver.

He feels hot breath against his skin, tries not to whimper as Michael spreads him wide, tongue inside him now, soft intrusion that's both too much and not enough, all at once.

He falls down on to his elbows, head resting on the bed, closing his eyes, losing himself in the sensation, when Michael suddenly shifts away.

And then there's sound of plastic snapping open and two cool fingers pushing into him, slow but unrelenting, working him open, making him ready. Jean-Eric hisses, that sting sweet and familiar and so fucking _good_ , moving his hips back against the feeling.

"You _do_ like it," Michael says, sitting back, removing his fingers, and Jean-Eric can hear the smile in his voice. "Good boy," he says.

"Stop talking," Jean-Eric mutters, and Michael laughs.

"Turn over," he says, and Jean-Eric flips on to his back. Michael's grinning, his teeth white, his eyes wide and hungry. It might be the hottest fucking thing Jean-Eric's ever seen but it makes him angry, being vulnerable like this, letting Michael take control. He feels humiliated, but somehow that only makes it better.

He spreads his legs wide, watches as Michael opens a condom, sliding it over his cock. "Are you sure?" he says, but the words seem perfunctory, merely a token gesture, because he sure as hell doesn't look like he'd stop, even if the answer was no, and it's Jean-Eric's turn to laugh.

"Shut up and fuck me," he says, and Michael smiles. 

"I like you," he says, and his weight is over Jean-Eric, entering him roughly, without finesse. Short, sharp thrusts in, hard and fast immediately, without any build-up or tease and it's fucking _perfect_.

Jean-Eric throws his head back, closes his eyes. His hands are over his head, gripping the headboard, bracing himself against Michael's onslaught, and it's like being remade, shaped into something new, something better, that he can _take_ this, that he can keep up, pushing his hips up to meet Michael's every move.

And the guy's got stamina, that's for certain, not stopping, fucking into Jean-Eric like a _machine_ , unrelenting and merciless. He's screwed around with the other younger drivers; fumbling, desperate encounters that have been over almost before they start, but this isn't even in the same league.

This is something different, something else entirely.

He can feel himself getting hard again, and then Michael's hand is on him, jerking his cock in time with his thrusts.

"Come on," Jean-Eric says, groaning. "Fucking come on." 

And Michael slams into him one last time, the blunt _force_ of him almost overwhelming Jean-Eric, and he can _feel_ it, feel Michael coming, like a crash, like taking a corner right on the limit, on the very knife-edge of losing control.

Jean-Eric doesn't open his eyes, listening to Michael's breathing as he pulls out, the loss like something tangible. 

"I…" Jean-Eric starts, but Michael already knows what he needs, a few harsh strokes of his cock and Jean-Eric's coming again, almost as good as the first time, waves of pleasure moving through him, echoing pulses sparking through his body as he falls back into reality.

He lies there, completely spent, but Michael's up already, closing the bathroom door behind him. Jean-Eric guesses that he's supposed to leave now, be on his way out the door by the time Michael comes back, but he couldn't move if he tried, even if he wanted to.

And when Michael re-enters the room, he doesn't look displeased to see Jean-Eric still in his bed. He smiles, in fact, throwing a warm, wet washcloth in Jean-Eric's direction.

"Thanks," he says, using it to wipe himself off, then tossing it to one side.

"You're welcome," Michael replies. He stands for a moment, head tilted slightly to one side, regarding Jean-Eric, face unreadable, but then climbs back on to the bed, lying on his side, head propped up on one elbow.

He reaches out, one hand running over Jean-Eric's chest, and then leans closer, placing a strangely gentle, almost chaste kiss on Jean-Eric's lips. And Jean-Eric can't help himself, opening his mouth wider, grabbing the back of Michael's neck to pull him in, but Michaels shifts away, abrupt and definite.

"Maybe you should go," he says.

"I'm sorry," Jean-Eric says, feeling like maybe he's fucked this up. But then maybe he never had a chance.

"No, it's okay." Michael shrugs.

Jean-Eric nods, and gets up, looking round the room for his clothes. "Do you do this a lot?" he asks, because he may as well, and, to be honest, he's curious.

"What?" says Michael.

"You know…" Jean-Eric gestures vaguely. "With other drivers."

"Not for long time, no." Michael seems almost wistful, the sadness distinct in his voice when he adds, "These days, I have a lot less to lose."

Jean-Eric pulls on his shoes, runs a hand through his hair. "Maybe I'll see you in Japan?" he says, trying not to sound as hopeful and _needy_ as he feels. 

"Sure," Michael says, smiling again, but it's the professional smile, the one Jean-Eric recognizes from press conferences and interviews.

It's very clear he means 'no, you won't'.

"Well," Jean-Eric says, lingering, waiting for something that he can't quite name, something that he knows he's not going to get.

"Goodbye, then," says Michael, and Jean-Eric feels like he's being dismissed, discarded, but he guesses that's no one's fault but his own.

"Bye," he says, closing the door behind him.

The next race will be better, he's certain of it.


End file.
